Talland House

by Maggie Humm

  The next morning, Lily left for the beach with her paints and sketchpad.

  “I paint landscapes and seascapes,” she’d said to the landlady, who’d asked about her subjects. “My range is rather limited, I’m afraid.”

  It wasn’t the modernity of Mrs. Ramsay’s portrait that would cause disquiet; it was safer not to mention painting a woman in case she’d think it was a nude. In London, Lily had curtains in her studio to pull over the canvases so as not to offend the servants, and she was safe in the cold hall of the Greek sculptures in the British Museum, her favourite gallery. Sitting facing the immense figures, ignoring the curious glances of men in bowler hats, she’d often wished Sparta existed; Spartan women dressed for physical action, bared their breasts for speed, although their use of bows and arrows was troubling. The Greek statues had been inspiring, but it had to be the memories were there to help her towards a future point —somewhere at the end of this wandering into the past was the knowledge she’d be a professional painter.

  Down on the beach, she paused for a moment, choosing a figure to sketch, noticing a solitary painter surrounded by curious boys, as if waiting for coins or sweets. His bright yellow boots must have caught their attention. Close by, a child played with an umbrella near the bathing huts. It was the movement she had to capture, not simply the outline, and she sketched contentedly for a few hours, remembering when she was last here, watching the children’s games with Emily on the beach, the youngsters standing back to back, their arms interlinked, singing their song, “Weigh the butter, weigh the cheese, weigh the old woman down to the knees,” and one child would force the other onto the ground with infectious giggles. Even Emily would laugh, her normally intense look fading, but the months with Emily were now in the past.

  Lily was older now and must make her way in the world. Mrs. Ramsay’s invitation was generous, but she needed to complete more work while in St Ives. She would open out here like a Christmas parcel. In the limitless freedom of the town, all the gifts packed inside her could be on display. The beach began to empty as families took their children home for tea, and Lily rested on the top bar of the promenade railings looking out over the glare of the sea at Godrevy Lighthouse, hearing distant cries, the pat-pat of sails flapping against the rigging, the waves lapping. Now she felt the whole of the past could be present, as if her childhood days inched forward as slowly as the tortoise in the garden at home.

  It was the rock pools she’d most loved as a child. For a few seconds she was in Bournemouth, with Mother holding her hand, her sturdy little legs stepping from one seaweed-covered stone to another over the sapphire-coloured sea. “Do return crabs to the water with care, Lily,” her mother would say, “in case they lose a claw with your handling.”

  Most of all, she’d relished standing on the beach, the sand slipping away beneath her feet when the waves swept out, feeling all the ground might disappear if she stood long enough. Her mother always carried sea-salted seaweed fronds into the hired house, and Mrs. Ramsay hung up seaweed too. “Mr. Ramsay asks the children to guess the next day’s weather,” she’d told Lily. “If the seaweed remains wet, it will rain.”

  Such past moments didn’t disappear because they were in her paintings. Louis would understand when she painted the beach and the rock pools in St Ives, she was painting other beaches, other pools, much more real, somehow, than any scene before her. He’d feel the same way, she was sure, because one day he’d said, “I bring my Australian childhood, where everyone lives on the beach, into my seascapes,” and she’d shared ideas with him. “Each colour has its own language in my mind, Mr. Grier,” she’d said. He’d laughed, but he’d listened, and he would again. She had to talk to him about her work, but above all, she wanted to see him.

  The children’s cries jolted her back into the day. Lily looked up, and, in the distance, there was Mrs. Ramsay under a black parasol wearing a wide-brimmed hat shielding the sun from her white face, with Mr. Tansley scuttling alongside carrying her basket. It seemed everything else floated away. Mrs. Ramsay shimmered infinitesimally in the sunny street, and Lily felt she was drifting into another space—a place in which she and Mrs. Ramsay were separate from the town’s hubbub, both watching a man paste a poster onto a wall—a picture of a big tent with blue and red stripes and a flag atop floating in the breeze. She could make out the legend.

  “Lord John Sanger’s circus, complete with Dick Turpin’s ride to York and the dramatic death of Black Bess” was coming to St Ives. “Highly diverting,” the poster promised. Mrs. Ramsay would likely take the children and her visitors. There were so many expeditions from Talland House. A woman artist, Lily remembered from her first visit to St Ives, loved to paint circus folk dressed in gaudy costumes and vivid makeup, waiting for their cues. She might tell the story to Mrs. Ramsay to contrive an invitation to the circus, as if she were a child again with her, but when she glanced up, the street was empty.

  The encroaching evening was tranquil, the sea now calm, with the glowing yellow and orange reflections of the sun on the horizon reaching out towards the town, but it was impossible to concentrate. Seeing the poster advertising Dick Turpin reminded her of Louis’s black waders and her first image of him as a highwayman. Feeling tired and disconnected from the scene, something in her knew where she needed to go. She could use the excuse of missing his expertise.

  Putting her paints into her satchel, she ran her fingers through her hair, shaping loose ends into curls, and walked as fast as she could to the studio, her feet hardly feeling the cobbles in Fore Street. The Sloop Inn was ahead, and she remembered the evening in its upper room when Louis handed her a glass saying, “You must taste the dew of Bonnie Scotland, Miss Briscoe.” His tipsiness never faulted his manners. She’d disliked the peaty scent but had downed the glass to show willing, and Louis had stared, astonished. She’d hoped he might kiss her—just by standing close and bending her face towards him, laughing at his witty comments—but he’d merely stroked her hand when she returned the empty glass.

  At last Lily reached the studio. Salt spray had bleached the staircase whiter than before; she could taste it on her fingers. When the high windows facing the sea were thrown open she’d loved sitting in an easy chair, gossiping with everyone, studying the forms of the waves and the diminishing line of the horizon as the seascape became her back garden. Now, as she paused on the threshold watching the students in threes and fours, working hard at their easels down the long studio, she didn’t recognize any faces, all younger now, of course, but she felt at ease in the familiar room, and strolled from group to group, greeting and chatting, content to watch the placing of brushstrokes, while they stood painting against the darkening evening sky, before wiping their brushes on pieces of old canvas and putting their work into folders.

  A student leaving for the night held the door wide open for another man to enter. It was Louis. Everything seemed to slow down as she waited for something to be said, checking her hair, determined not to flush. Before she’d felt with a kind of giddy distinctiveness the pulse beating in her wrist whenever he shook her hand, and now she kept hers by her side. He beamed and saluted.

  “Miss Briscoe the prodigal has returned! How long has it been—ten years?”

  His strong Australian lilt, higher at the end of the sentence, filled the whole space, and he stepped over, gazing directly into her eyes, and grasped her hand.

  “I overheard Mrs. Ramsay talking about your portrait to a young male companion in the town,” he said. “I hoped you might be here.”

  There were fresh wrinkles at the sides of his eyes, and as the light shone on his thick hair, she could see a few grey hairs, but his face was as handsome as ever. It was a distinguished man, scarcely middle-aged who smiled at her, as if the years apart were a few weeks.

  “I’m delighted to be back, Mr. Grier.”

  She couldn’t say more. Her voice mightn’t obey her, and she wanted to stay calm and collected. Her hand clasped in his tingled, and the reflection of t
he setting sun glowed on the whitewashed walls. She could feel he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “And how is London treating you?’ he asked. “I saw you had a painting displayed in Agnews.”

  He’d been following her work! It was a heady thought, and the rush of happiness seemed to leave no space for anything else: for the students, for their paintings, for what they’d been saying, even, for a moment, for Mrs. Ramsay’s portrait.

  “Agnews was good to exhibit me,” she replied, speaking quickly, “particularly now my interest is in pure colour more than figures. The London art scene is so demanding.”

  The room hushed, everyone listening to their conversation. Why had she said that? The words were all wrong, far too pretentious; what she said had to mean something to Louis or be able to mean something. She could almost hear herself breathing. He wouldn’t admire her new confidence, and she tried again.

  “Painting portraits in colour shapes is easier,” she explained. “I don’t work fast enough. A wave, a cloud, they’re here one minute and then gone for good.”

  She met a roguish grin and an approving glance, making her want to smile back at him.

  “My dear girl,” Louis laughed, “all painting is joyful agony, a labour of love.”

  The word “girl” at her age was delightful, and the sash seemed to tighten around her waist.

  “Let’s escape to the Sloop!” he called out to the group.

  Two attractive young women in gauzy buckram dresses, who’d been bravely painting without serge pinafores, turned to Louis with the same adoring looks she’d always tried to hide as a student. How often did they all go to the inn together?

  “We’ll toast Miss Briscoe’s return,” he added, winking at her and sweeping them both down the staircase towards the quayside with his plaid cape.

  She’d never expected, or hoped, to see an expression of pleasure on his face after the years away, never thought he would look at her as anything other than a student, though she’d been asking him to, soundlessly, behind her closed lips on the way to the studio. Deciding to watch and wait, meeting his glances, smiling at his jokes, encouraging him to see her as an interesting, attractive woman who could share his knowledge of London galleries, she wouldn’t allow herself to think she was older than the other women. Often now she had to remind herself other people might see the deeper creases at the side of her mouth, even when she felt the same age as any young person she spoke to. Her voice sounded as girlish as ever, but, in the mornings, when she washed, the mirror reflected a strong, handsome face. She’d learned so much since her student days. It would make up for her extra years.

  It was early, and the inn’s upper room was clear of cigarette smoke, the evening sun shining through the windows. Examining some pictures hanging on the walls, she turned to find Louis greeting Olsson, who was entering together with a woman companion not much shorter than the big man himself.

  “May I present Mrs. Olsson, Miss Briscoe?” Louis said. “I’m not sure you met when you were last in St Ives? Mrs. Olsson was unable to attend the Arts Club’s dinner.” He smiled at Lily. “Miss Briscoe had a painting exhibited in Agnews this year, Mrs. Olsson!”

  Although thankful for Louis’s praise, Lily shook hands unsure what to say, given the usually irritable Olsson was close by, but she admired the woman’s sensible appearance. Her clothes were not of this year but carefully maintained, with ankle boots of smooth leather, yet sturdy enough for the cobbles.

  Olsson taught students from eight in the morning until late. “I sometimes paint right through the night,” he’d boasted. What would Mrs. Olsson do during the long days? Lily thought she remembered Mrs. Ramsay mentioning Olsson had children, but wouldn’t Mrs. Olsson be lonely in the evenings as he worked on his big canvases?

  Mrs. Olsson held onto Lily’s hand and leaned over, beaming into her face.

  “Louis and Julius have told me so much about you, Miss Briscoe,” she said, “although it’s been some time since you were here?”

  Hearing she was in their thoughts while absent, she let the comfort sweep over her and glanced at Louis, wanting their earlier talk to continue, to feel his smile on her, but he was deep in discussion with Olsson about the week’s crit. She noticed Louis’s hand shaking as he held his whisky glass. The two women were alone together at the back of the room.

  “Shall we sit, my dear?” Mrs. Olsson asked. “I’d love to hear about your life after St Ives. I travel so little with Julius.”

  What was her life? Rushing to complete work for exhibitions, presiding over Father’s tea table with women visitors. No men.

  “The studio must take up much of Mr. Olsson’s time,” Lily said.

  Seeing the couple triggered the questions about marriage that always sprang into her mind whenever Louis was near. Her heart slowed, thinking about what marriage could bring —restrictions from a husband’s timetables and loneliness waiting for him to return.

  “It does,” Mrs. Olsson replied, “but I find much to occupy me at home. I’d rather hear your story, though. Do tell me about yourself.”

  Lily sat back in her chair, alight with the excitement of exhibitions and of walking around London alone at night from the galleries to the tube without chaperones. She didn’t mention living with Father. “But I’ve not sold many paintings this year,” she said.

  “And now you’re with us again at Mrs. Ramsay’s invitation?” Mrs. Olsson asked. “She’s a good friend, a dear woman so thoughtful of others, so giving of her time. Are you enjoying your visit?”

  “Oh, very much,” Lily said. “The day Mrs. Ramsay’s invitation to paint her portrait arrived, I was awake all night with excitement. I’m so glad to be back in St Ives.”

  Tilting back from Lily, Mrs. Olsson scrutinized her face as if she were a relative she never knew she had and then leaned forward, speaking in a hushed voice.

  “Might I talk confidentially?” she asked, looking round. “What impressions do you have of the Ramsays?”

  “I’m not sure what to say,” Lily said, looking directly at Mrs. Olsson. “I admire Mrs. Ramsay a great deal but find Mr. Ramsay very difficult.” Mrs. Olsson seemed in agreement from her despondent expression.

  “I treasure the dear lady and the children. They often call at my house.” Mrs. Olsson paused, checking Lily’s face before glancing over at the two men and whispering, “I’ve seen her distressed many times.”

  “Mrs. Ramsay’s face is often white and drawn,” Lily said, glad to have a confidante.

  “I’m not sure of the causes,” Mrs. Olsson said, “but I wonder about Mr. Ramsay?”

  Lily recalled the scenes in Talland House—Mr. Ramsay’s virulence in front of visitors, throwing a flowerpot, shouting at the children in the garden, being rude and brusque to Mrs. Ramsay in public, too many sad memories. Her face fell, and Mrs. Olsson patted her hand.

  “I can see we’re in agreement,” she said. “He’s not an easy husband, and, in confidence, he is often angry. Might you report to me any difficulties that arise with him? If I knew when she was distressed, I could help ease the burden.”

  “Of course,” Lily said. “I’d do anything to support Mrs. Ramsay.”

  “When I hear from you then,” Mrs. Olsson continued, “I’ll come to her the very next day to help with the children, to be a calming presence.”

  “I’m so happy Mrs. Ramsay has such a good friend,” Lily said, smiling at Mrs. Olsson. She couldn’t say anything more.

  Mrs. Olsson gave her a fond, shy glance, but there was no time to brood. Louis had opened the piano lid and was striking up the chords of a music hall song. If Lily stood close to him, his conviviality would surround her, pushing Mr. Ramsay away into the darkening sky, and she joined in the chorus of “Yes, You Are” exactly on the right note. Louis smiled up at her, pitching his voice in harmony.

  A thick sea mist had drifted over the town early in the morning, even reaching the fine houses on the hill, which she could hardly see at all from her lodgings.
The mist deadened the seagull cries, the ringing of cart wheels on the cobbles made the town seem unearthly under an opaque white curtain, but the sun would break through eventually over Talland House garden. She must ready herself for the day ahead. She’d taken breakfast with the Ramsays earlier in the week, but, with the arrival of the mist delaying painting, she’d eat with Mr. Bankes today. Last night he’d insisted she should.

  “My valet cooks eggs in any number of ways. ‘You mustn’t start work without victuals,’ my father always said. Do taste the egg first, though, Miss Briscoe, before using salt. So often salt isn’t necessary at all.”

  When he arrived at the lodgings yesterday, he’d made no fuss about the rooms or the landlady’s strictures, declaring, “I’m happy to be seeing the Ramsays again.” She’d appreciated his gentle conversation, his refusal to be assertive about ideas. So she could tolerate his one little obsession about salt, when it was needed and when, most of the time it seemed, it wasn’t. His calm, smooth face made him look younger than his years, although his hair was almost completely grey, and he’d shaken hands looking at her in an open way, telling her about himself as if glad to share everything.

  “I was a botanist, Miss Briscoe, before retirement. We had to learn hundreds of Latin names and every genus of plant,” he’d said, and after they’d talked for a while he’d revealed, “I’m a widower now, and my regret, Miss Briscoe, is I have no children, so it’s delightful visiting the Ramsay family.”

  It accounted for Mrs. Ramsay’s concern for his comfort; Lily had overheard her talking to Prue about a fisher family without children and how sad it made her feel. But in spite of Mr. Bankes’s friendliness, she’d keep her observations of the Ramsays to herself. She wasn’t sure what to say about Mr. Ramsay.

  After breakfast they climbed up together through the town towards Talland House. The sun was beginning to burn off the mist, and the sunlight made more visible Mr. Bankes’s old-fashioned clothes and the white streaks in his hair. “I must carry your easel,” he’d insisted, and his courtesy made a pleasant whole with his lack of gossip. Would he expect her to be entertaining? All men needed women to stimulate them into great thoughts, it seemed. Today’s leader column in the Times said so.